


Place the fetter

by zombieboyband



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dog - Freeform, Gen, hannibal is a responsible dog owner, this is my niche in every fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 13:46:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombieboyband/pseuds/zombieboyband
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal has a dog. Will was not expecting this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Place the fetter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [etirabys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/etirabys/gifts).



Hannibal has a dog. Will was not expecting this. The dog is sleek and muscular, looking imposing and powerful, and, more immediately, the dog is blocking his way into the house.

"Her name is Fenrir," Hannibal is saying, bending at the knees almost imperceptibly to pet the dog under her chin. He had been allowed inside the house without issue.

"Fenrir?" Will repeats, tongue skipping over the last syllable of the name, clumsy and American where Hannibal's tongue is not. "But she's--?"

"Dogs are not concerned with social constructs such as gender," Hannibal says evenly, and Will, not for the first time, wonders if he's being made fun of. Hannibal tilts his head to the side and gives the impression of a smile with hardly moving his lips. "Come in."

"Fenrir, Fenris, like, the wolf who eats the world at the end of it?" Will asks, preoccupied as he steps over Hannibal's threshold, into his foyer, now that Hannibal has given a hand signal and the dog has moved out of the way. "In Norse mythology?"

"Fenrir merely means Fen-dweller," Hannibal says, strolling into his home, voice trailing behind him in the dark, the only company Will has as he hesitates, because Fenrir follows at Hannibal's heels, leaving Will alone in the dark, alone with the voice. It feels like cold velvet against his face. "I found her while I was out driving, during a storm."

"Fen?" Will asks blankly.

"It means wetland," Hannibal said, "I was passing by a swap. It seemed fitting." He claps and the lights turn on. He adjusts the brightness with a sliding toggle on the wall.

"It's ominous," Will says outright, able to tell now, in the light, that he is not alone. He feels worse for it.

"I call her Fen for short," Hannibal says, pivoting smooth on one heel, draping his suit jacket over some expensive sort of couch that Will is sure costs more than what he makes in a year.

"Fen," will repeats. "She looks like a police dog."

"A Belgian Shepherd Malinois nearly always does," Hannibal says.

"She really looks like a police dog," Will says.

"She may have been, at one time," Hannibal agrees, as he is browsing his wine rack, "But she wasn't microchipped. I checked, when I found her. No owner ever came forward." Fen comes up and presses against his legs, asking to be pet. Hannibal obliges her, with the ghost of a smile. "Lucky me."

Fen's suspicious brown eyes stare at Will from behind Hannibal's legs. Her black and tan fur is shedding onto Hannibal's impeccable suit pants, but he doesn't seem to mind. The floor is terribly clean. Will wonders if Hannibal owns a roomba. They have a special pet hair model that Will's been thinking of buying. It's more likely, however, that Hannibal hires a cleaning staff of some sort.

Or.

It should be more likely, in any case. Will isn't sure why he somehow doubts it.

"She's very healthy looking," Will says, because it is true.

"I try," is the only answer. Hannibal selects a bottle of wine, gesturing before he gets glasses, offering some to Will.

Will shakes his head. Hannibal sends Fen over to her elegant little dog bed next to the couch with a flick of his wrist, and then he opens the wine bottle. Will hears him pour two glasses.

Fen does not take her eyes off Will for a moment. She clearly doesn't trust him, and each time he shifts his weight from foot to foot, she half rises, watching him, ready to get up and pursue the intruder.

Will isn't used to it. All kinds of dogs are protective of their owners, but Fen isn't growling at him, or letting her hackles rise. She's just watching, like she won't warn before she strikes. It's eerie and Will doesn't like it and goddamnit, dogs _like_ him. Dogs _always_ like him. Maybe there's something wrong with him, finally really wrong with him, that's blossoming inside and Fen is the first to tell. Perhaps his own dogs will pick up on it next, avoiding him around the house until they turn on him as a pack. The thought makes Will despair for a second. It would be such a lonely death, being mauled by his dogs.

"Please," Hannibal says, interrupting his morbid thoughts, "Sit." 

Will sits, Fen watching his every twitch. Hannibal hands him a glass of wine and Will is too busy staring at the dog to notice, so he just accepts it.

"She's very protective of you," Will says, and he takes a sip of wine absently.

"You know how working line dogs are," Hannibal says, reaching down to scratch an Fen's neck, sitting down on the couch opposite Will.

"It's very rare to just find a Mal," Will says.

"Only in America," Hannibal says, "But they turn up in animal shelters from time to time, do they not? Most of the time people can't distinguish them from German Shepherds."

"You said she's not chipped?" Will asks. Police dogs were always chipped, and often tattooed with a number.

"She is now," Hannibal says, "I would hate to lose her." He takes a long sip of wine.

Fen relaxes as Hannibal's hand is on her, and it makes her a little less fearsome--she flops down onto her side, exposing more of her neck. Hannibal has to lean down to do it. Fen trusts him absolutely: even with Will in the room, she rolls over onto her back, offering her chest and stomach trusting Hannibal to protect her from the stranger in their house. Her eyes squinting and blissful.

Some of Will's dogs never roll over on their backs at all. They are strays, mutts, ragtag and fray eared and most of them have had mysterious hard lives and will probably never trust anyone enough to roll over on their backs. Will respects this and hates to see it, because he loves happy trusting goofy dogs that offer their belly to anyone, as if the world is a good place. Will likes to be able to agree with this delusion every now and then. The dogs believe it, so he can believe it. A little.

Some of Will's dogs are can't actually be touched very much, though they all let Will pet them and talk to them softly and bathe them. Some of them only let Will touch them and groom them. He's been banned from a couple of dog salons.

"Well, she would hate to lose you," Will says, and he takes a great gulp of wine to distract himself.

Hannibal's eyes are indulgent as he gazes down at her.

Fen really does look healthy. Her eyes are bright and quick, her movements smooth, her fur shiny and lustrous The silkiness of it cannot hide the muscles underneath, and Will wonders what kind of exercise this dog gets, and where. The house does not smell unpleasantly like dog, so she is free of the usual undiagnosed allergies and skin infections of common household dogs. Her teeth, where he can see them, and shiny and white.

"What do you feed her?" Will asks suddenly. It's not an uncommon question among dog owners.

Hannibal glances up at him, eyes piercing.

"I have her on a custom made diet of raw meat and bones," Hannibal says, "With a slurry of fruits and vegetables as appropriate."

"You're a raw feeder?" Will asks.

"It's becoming increasingly common these days," Hannibal explains, "There are even commercially available, pre-prepared raw meals for dogs."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Will says, and he blinks at his glass of wine, because it is nearly gone, "But aren't you worried about--"

What would Hannibal possibly be worried about? What was Will worried about?

"--nutritional deficiencies or salmonella poisoning or something?" Will finishes quickly, because those are the most common objections he can think of. He feeds his dogs kibble--it's a high end, grain free formula, but it's still kibble. He gives them frozen kongs filled with peanut butter as treats.

"I've consulted with several veterinarians to make sure I understand her nutritional needs," Hannibal says, "I am quite confident that she is healthy--as are you, from just glancing at her. As for the rest, not really, no. I feed her in her kennel. The plastic floor wipes down easily."

"But why?" Will asks, "She's a dog. Not a wolf."

"Do your dogs object to the occasional piece of meat, Will?" Hannibal asks.

"No," Will sighs. He finishes his wine.

Hannibal snaps his fingers and Fen stands at attention. He pats the spot on the couch next to him and she jumps up at the invitation.

"I just thought--" Hannibal muses, putting his wine glass on an available side table, "I enjoy food, and she is my friend, and do I not wish for my friends to enjoy food, under my roof?"

"Well," Will says, knowing Jack has eaten with Hannibal, knowing the taste of Hannibal's protein scramble, "Yes."

"And I just could not bear the thought," Hannibal says, both hands buried in the thick fur of Fen's neck now as he leaned forward, "Of her having to eat the same dreary thing, day after day..."

"Right," Will says.

"So within reason," Hannibal says, "She eats what I eat."

Fen's tongue slips out of her mouth, quick, to lap at Hannibal's lips. He pushes her away but buries his face in her fur, leaning into her, as she leans into him. Will can just see the smile on Hannibal's face, mostly hidden by the fur, but definitely there, wider than he's ever seen Hannibal smile before.

Will is mystified.

The dog adores Hannibal.

Hannibal adores the dog.

Psychopaths can't actually take good care of animals, as a general rule. They lack the empathy. Will knows this. They are, for the most part, like the replicants in Philip K Dick stories in that respect--androids dreaming of electric sheep because they can't nurture anything real.

"Within reason?" Will echoes.

"No grapes, no chocolate, of course," Hannibal says. "Is that the question?"

"I think," Will says unsteadily, suddenly, "I think I should go home."

"You've only had one glass of wine," Hannibal says.

"I have to go check on my own dogs," Will says. "You know how it is. Can't leave them alone for long."

Hannibal gives him one of the small, polite smiles again. It's nothing like the smile he pressed into Fen's fur, and Will isn't sure why that bothers him.

"I understand," Hannibal says, and with a click of his tongue, Fen is off the couch. They walk to the door. "I hope you will return here someday soon, Will."

"Yeah, okay," Will says, out in the cold again, "Yeah."

He is surprised to realize he means it.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know, guys. I don't even know. Feed your dogs responsibly! The end.


End file.
